


Listen In If You Dare

by AllTheBellsInVenice



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 100 follower ficlets, F/M, Phone Sex, Prompt Fill, Sherlolly - Freeform, Voice Kink, Voyeurism, implied bi!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:26:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1755175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheBellsInVenice/pseuds/AllTheBellsInVenice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock goes undercover to fight crime with phone sex (!) and proves to a doubtful Molly that his deep, beautiful voice can ensnare all who hear it. Voyeuristic, slightly cracky, a little treat for those of us who savor the sound of his voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listen In If You Dare

_Anonymous asked you:_

_"Oh please, Sherlock, this case sounds ridiculous. Why would you even take it? Besides you could never go undercover as a phone sex operator" Molly giggled as she leaned against the lab counter. She couldn’t imagine he had any idea what that involved. She’s not sure even she had an idea. Did men even do that? He looked across the lab at her, his frown turning into something all together different. "Oh is that a challenge Miss Hooper?"…. ((Yeah serious voice kink over here))_

****

“...Men certainly work in phone sex,” he continued. He drew back from the counter, sparing not a glance for the slide he’d left on the stage of the microscope, and put his hands in his trouser pockets. “Apparently all it takes is the ability to listen and to improvise. You think I can’t do that?” He lowered his chin and looked down at Molly.

“Well, of course. But you also have to, um, say things that are…well, sexy,” Molly said, her cheeks pinking a little. God, that was a rather awkward turn. She shouldn’t have said a word. She—-

“You believe I’m not capable of suitably erotic conversation,” he said flatly, the corners of his mouth twitching down. “That I won’t be convincing. That the suspect will find that I’m not up to his standard, and ring off before the signal can be traced.”

“The suspect is a man?” Molly bit her lip. The idea of Sherlock’s voice crooning filthy things into the phone for the delectation of another man…Was it odd that the idea was making her a distinctly hot and bothered? Molly crossed her legs and shifted, without thinking.

Sherlock’s eyes had narrowed; oh, he’d seen. Of course, he’d have read whatever sign she’d given. Molly swallowed hard.

“Well well, Molly. An interesting reaction to that little piece of information,” he smirked. “What about this, then. The trace operation will occur this evening. When you get a call from an unlisted number, somewhere between the hours of eight and eleven o’clock, pick it up.” His eyes on hers were challenging. “If you choose to take the call, you can listen in on my part of the operation. And I’ll prove to you, my doubtful Molly, that my skills in that area are far from lacking.” And Sherlock turned and swept from the room, leaving Molly to deal with his clutter around her microscope as well as his startling pronouncement. 

***

By eight o’clock, Molly was determined to pick up the phone when it rang. Sherlock had practically dared her to do it, probably assuming that she would be too shy; what was more, Molly was rather fascinated by the prospect of hearing Sherlock entertaining a “client” with…that voice.

That smooth, elegantly nuanced voice, so improbably deep for such a slim man. The volume he could summon when he wished, filling the air and pushing all other sounds aside. That…that growl she’d caught edging his voice occasionally when he was ranting in anger, a grating at the very bottom of his register. She’d caught only hints of that. She wanted, yes, she craved to hear more.

Molly placed her phone carefully down on the side table beside her wine glass, then stretched out on her sofa. She might have to wait for some time. Settling in, she clicked onto some trashy programme about dancers that normally diverted her, helped her turn her brain off, but after an episode and a half had passed as mere flickers before her eyes, she was forced to admit that there was no distracting her from thoughts of the call. Hmph, all this drama. Maybe she’d rather be in the bath, she thought. It was getting late. Sherlock might be taking the mickey, anyway. Well, he could sod himself. Perhaps she wouldn’t pick up after all——

But her phone buzzed, and there it was: a call from a blocked number, vibrating gently against her table. Molly stared at it for a moment, then a pair of insolent blue eyes flashed in her memory, and Molly snatched up the phone, putting her hand over her mouth to quash her habitual urge to say hello, and trying not to breathe loudly. She didn’t know whether the connection went both ways.

“—-just me tonight, William,” she heard an unfamiliar male voice saying. The call was already in progress, then. She smiled at the other man’s words. She knew Sherlock’s full name from some paperwork he’d given her. Funny that he’d have given the perp part of his real name, she thought.

“Then…we are alone.” Oh, there he was. That voice was unmistakable. Sherlock was on the line with the suspect, and he was already…purring. “I am alone with you, Antoine.” Molly blushed to hear the caress in that sound, low, almost a whisper; listening like this almost felt like an intrusion. But Sherlock knew, knew she was listening, she reminded herself. He’d connected them deliberately, just moments ago.

“Oh, yes, William. We’re alone in my villa on the shores of the Mediterranean, and it’s a warm evening. I’m lounging out on the patio, and you, by the railing…what are you wearing, my William?”

“Very little,” Sherlock said lowly, as if he were sharing a secret. “A blue silk dressing gown, luxuriously soft.” Molly blinked; she’d seen Sherlock wear that dressing gown on days that he was slobbing around 221B and she’d come to beg back body parts she’d lent him. A bit odd that he’d describe a garment he actually owned, Molly thought, especially since he must know she’d remember it….

“Anything underneath?” From his voice, it sounded as though the other man were shifting his weight or, perhaps, lying down on a soft surface.

“Not a stitch,” Sherlock’s voice intimated rather breathlessly, hitting the consonants with delicate touches of his tongue inside his mouth. “The satin shows every line and curve of my body.”

“Mmm,” said the man. “William…what do you look like?”

“I’m tall, not too tall, and slim. But Antoine, I’m very strong. Broad shoulders,” Sherlock’s voice filled her ear, and Molly’s eyes slid closed, seeing him in her mind. “Slender waist. Long, lean legs. Powerful arms…large, fine-boned hands. An arse like you’ve never seen, full and firm…very spankable. Long neck,” he continued in a mesmerizing cadence. “Unusual face, bit patrician. Dark Caravaggio curls.” Oh, yes, Sherlock, Molly thought distractedly.

“Mmm. Beautiful,” the other man sighed, and Molly silently agreed. “What color are your eyes, William?”

“Like sun on the ocean. And my mouth, Antoine, you’ll love it. It’s really very…plush.” Breathless. Soft. Lingering.

Molly’s heart beat a little faster. Sherlock didn’t need to give this man his actual physical description, especially down to such specifics, she thought—-but then Sherlock spoke again, the sound holding a wicked edge.

“Would you like to see what my lips look like when they’re on your cock?”

The man groaned, and Molly held her breath to keep from doing the same. So deliciously obscene. And oh, he well knew she was listening. She could feel her blush deepening; she slid lower on the sofa.

“Open your trousers for me, Antoine,” Sherlock said, with a wet smack of his mouth. “Take out your cock. Are you hard?”

“God, yes,” Antoine said. “So hard, William.”

“Just lie back on the chaise longue,” Sherlock said, a note of command in his voice. “I’m bending over you, and my dressing gown is falling open, and you can just see the curve of my lean, pale belly.” Oh yes, Molly could see it.

But Sherlock continued. “Oh, Antoine, your cock looks so sinfully delicious.”

“Take it in your mouth, William. Pull on it. Put your hand on my bollocks…”

And Sherlock-as-William seemed to obey, and soft, wet noises came down the line. Molly could tell that Sherlock was making at least some of the sounds…he must have his fingers in his mouth, she thought, gulping. But the scene was so clear in her mind…The evening light, the breeze off the sea ruffling those dark curls as he bent over an indistinct, reclining figure, curving his neck for the best angle. She saw Sherlock’s lips wrapped around the thick shaft, his cheeks hollowing, his brow furrowed in concentration as he gave short little moans. Molly’s free hand crept toward her knickers.

“William,” the man was panting. A wet pop; Sherlock was pretending to pull his mouth away. “Yes, my dear Antoine?”

“Tell me about your cock, William,” he said breathlessly. “I want to see it. I want to kiss it…” Oh god. Would Sherlock be honest in his description? No, no, she knew he would, she thought with a shiver. Her hand moved in her knickers, ever faster.

“I’m standing up and coming around to stand near your face,” Sherlock told them both. “I pull my robe open. And here is my cock,” he breathed in the deepest register of his voice, in those grating tones that came from deep inside his chest. “As I said, I am a slim man, but my hands and feet are very large, and the pattern holds here. I’m formidable, Antoine. A nice thickness, too, and my bollocks are heavy against my thighs…and there is fine, dark hair nesting it all, trailing up onto my belly.

“And I’m hard for you,” he said, the words a hot darkness pouring into Molly’s mind. “So hard for you, my darling. I’ve waited so long for you to hear this. I’ve longed to share this with you, and to make you feel these things. To make you mine…”

“William?” The man cut into Molly’s dazed reverie, and silently, Molly cursed Antoine for a fool as he told Sherlock, “Less of the poetry, please. Just fuck my mouth, hard.”

“Oh, I’ll fuck your mouth,” Sherlock snarled suddenly, and Molly’s heart skipped a beat to hear his voice rise sharply, so powerful, so male. “I want to see your mouth open for me. Your pretty little lips opening up wide for what I’m going to give you, oh yes,” and with his words, Molly opened her own mouth helplessly. She could almost feel him on her tongue. Oh, if only she had a free hand…

Carefully, Molly set the phone to speaker mode, and very gently laid it on the sofa beside her. Then, as Sherlock kept speaking, describing how he was holding Antoine’s head in his hands, she slid her fingers against her tongue while her other hand continued to stroke her aching little pussy.

“I’m sliding it in,” Sherlock was saying. “Oh, my cock is hot in your mouth. The skin feels like silk velvet against your tongue. Take it, take all of it,” Sherlock gasped, taking heavy breaths. Molly heard Antoine moaning faintly, but she mentally shoved him aside. It was her mouth Sherlock was driving into, her hair his big hands were caressing, her tongue squirming against that swollen head, that thick, throbbing shaft. Oh…she was close…

Then Molly heard a new sound through the phone, a banging, a breaking of glass—-the other man gasped, seemed to fumble with his phone—-

“Antoine Braxton, you are under arrest,” a new voice said firmly in a decided Estuary accent. Could that be Detective Inspector Lestrade? Molly shook her head hard, a little disoriented at the sudden shift. She heard a note of triumph in Lestrade’s voice as he rattled off the familiar right-to-silence text: “You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned—-”

Suddenly, the voices cut off, and Molly realized that she was lying half off her sofa with one hand down her knickers and the other in her mouth, and that she’d just heard the successful conclusion of the trace operation. She looked at her phone. “Sh…Sherlock?”

But the call had ended, and for a moment Molly felt rather silly. Then, there was a firm knock on her door.

“Just—-just a moment,” Molly called, and ran to the bathroom to grab a flannel and hurriedly wipe her hands. She bounded back to open the door, and who should be standing there but one Mr Sherlock Holmes, looking as cool and composed as Molly was flustered.

He peered down at her, a grin of triumph on that lovely face that, in her mind, had been so recently lit by a Mediterranean sunset. “Molly. Good evening. And did you enjoy my little performance?”

As if she could hope to hide anything from him, even if she wanted to. “Very much,” she replied softly. Her eyes went to his open collar, and she let her lips part.

“So you admit to my skill in this particular area, then?” he pressed her, taking her hand and lifting it to his face. Molly gasped as he took a heavy breath of the lingering scent of her pussy.

Panting, she smiled and told him, “I should never have doubted you.” He smirked down at her, his eyes full of a gathering darkness.

Suddenly, Sherlock seized her and pulled her down on the sofa, those eyes sparking, and Molly laughed, delighted.

“Kiss me, Sherlock. Kiss me with that dirty, dirty mouth,” she begged him, tearing at his clothing as he pulled at hers with trembling hands. Soon they were falling naked onto the floor in front of the sofa, and a condom appeared in Sherlock’s hand, and after a moment that was so brief but still a trial to impatient Molly, he was on top of her, rocking hard into her body.

“Moan for me, Sherlock,” Molly breathed, her hands around his back, touching his face, weaving into his curls. “Let me hear it. How much you want this. I want to hear your voice when you come.”

And Sherlock obeyed, grinding his hips between her legs, and as Molly’s orgasm took her, she felt that voice rumbling against her chest, swelling into a deep roar of ecstasy that rang gloriously in her ears as he spilled, spilled, spilled inside her.


End file.
